


My Ghosts Are Real

by Madi, StarNightingle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hallucination Sherlock, John thinks Sherlock is dead, M/M, No Mary, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-The Empty Hearse, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2514701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madi/pseuds/Madi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarNightingle/pseuds/StarNightingle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thought his Sherlock hallucinations were going away, but apparently they're back worse than ever and with no intention of leaving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Ghosts Are Real

In the end going crazy wasn’t the hell John had expected it to be. And hell, if Ella was to be believed, he was getting better. It had only taken the better part of nine months to stop seeing Sherlock every where he looked. And just three more months after that to stop hearing his voice.

It had been a year and john was finally starting to feel alright. Not good, not really, but the sadness was bearable.

He was sitting and reading a recent medical study when he heard the first knock on the door of his new bedsit. It wasn’t Baker Street but Baker Street was hardly home without Sherlock so this place was just fine.

He got up and crossed to the door. He’d complained about the heating system not working, it was probably the landlord here to see what was wrong with it.

He opened the door. He blinked once quickly. He shut the door.

Leaning against the door he tried to steady himself. _It’s not possible,_ he reminded himself, _Sherlock is dead. It’s not possible. Get a grip._

The knocking started again. John looked up in surprise. Was someone really here? Someone who just looked like Sherlock? He refused to open the door again, just in case.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘John, you... I...’

John sucked in a deep hard breath. That baritone was unmistakable. The deep rumble, the smooth timbre, the precise pronunciation. Now John had to figure out if it was a true apparition or if his mind was substituting, it did that sometimes, though admittedly not for a while.

‘Who is it?’ he tried again, if he could get a name that would help.

‘Just open the door John.’

John hesitated a moment. He looked around his empty bedsit. He could practice the regimes Ella had been teaching him to banish the visions. He could also embrace this moment of madness, alone in his flat. Did it count if you could tell it was fake?

He reached out and pulled the door open quickly, backing away and sitting in his chair. The apparition stayed frozen in the doorway, staring in for a moment, before stepping across the threshold.

‘God, John. I... how?’

‘Mmm,’ John knew he should stop this, ‘It’s been a while.’ Really it wasn’t good for him. ‘Tea?’

Oh god, he was offering tea to a phantom, he really had gone off the wagon, this was definitely a step in the opposite direction of mental health.

‘Tea? Sure. But, John-’

‘Excellent.’

John faltered for a moment pulling the cups out, was he really going to make tea for something his brain had conjured? Sure, why not, maybe they’d put him in an institution when he told Ella about this. He hit the button on the kettle and busied himself with the task.

‘John. I’m sure you have questions.’

‘Not really. I already know how you like your tea.’

What a weird thing to say. _Questions_. As if he could answer any of the questions he had for Sherlock any way.

‘John?’

‘Yea?’

‘I... nothing.’

John sighed. He wondered what his Sherlock wanted to say this time. Ella had told him that every conversation he had with this Sherlock had some greater meaning behind it, something he needed to resolve.

‘What Sherlock? What do I need to hear now?’

‘What do you...?’

John finished the tea and brought it over to where the seats were placed. He almost passed the cup right to Sherlock but caught himself last second, he had a few times at the start, breaking at least eleven mugs when it slipped through non-existent hands. He placed it instead on a table near Sherlock.

‘You always have something clever to say. What is it now?’

Sherlock’s brow dipped slightly as he looked at the mug on the table. ‘John, I know you’re probably angry.’

‘Angry? Why would I be angry?’

John thought back to his sessions with Ella. She had said he was past that. After the first few rows with air, yelling matches that were wholly one sided, he had moved past anger. Was it possible he had slipped back a step?

‘Well... aren’t you?’

‘I used to be. Now I’m just glad you’re here. For however long you’re here. No matter what it means.’

_It means I’ve lost it._

‘I’m staying John.’ Sherlock said this surely but then wavered as he continued, ‘With you, if you’re amendable.’

How many times had Sherlock said that, some variation of that? Not wanting to push his Sherlock away though John simply replied.

‘Yea, yes, course I’m amendable. As long as you want to stay...’

Sherlock visibly relaxed. Settling back into his seat a little, though he still seemed a little stiff the worst of it had leaked out of him. He finally took his eyes off of John long enough to glance around.

‘Your new place is... quaint.’

John laughed at that. His new place was boring. It was dreary and dull and so unlike 221.

‘You don’t get to judge me on this one. It’s cheap, affordable and has everything I need.’

‘Yes well,’ Sherlock smiled gravely, ‘the sooner you get back to Baker Street.’

John chocked on his tea.

‘Baker Street?’

John couldn’t go back there. Sure it might make his Sherlock last longer but at what cost. It hurt there, at Baker Street, worse than anywhere else he hurt there.

‘What’s wrong with Baker Street?’ The ghost asked.

John cleared his throat, ‘Well, it’s just, it’s our place.’

‘Home?’

The small hopeful smile on Sherlock’s lips was enough to stop his breathing momentarily. No, he wasn’t sure he wanted this Sherlock to stay anymore, he couldn’t handle this.

‘It’s just... I just... why are we doing this? Why now? Why Baker Street? I thought I was getting better...’

John hid his head in his hands for a moment, scrubbing at his face.

‘Getting better? John, are you alright?’

Sherlock reached out one hand gently, as if to touch him. John wished he would, wished he could, but he couldn’t. Sherlock’s hand hesitated for a moment and fell back down to the table. John sucked in another deep breath.

‘No, yes I’m fine just... what can’t we stay here?’

‘It’s not really big enough for two grown men?’

John laughed at his own mind. ‘Yea well, you won’t take up much room.’

He felt like he was getting hold of himself again. He was feeling normal. Well, as normal as you can get while discussing living arrangements with an image of your dead flat mate created by your own mind.

Sherlock looked just as confused as he was. ‘Where would I sleep?’

‘I’ve got a bed, use that when you need it.’

‘John I don’t...’ His frown deepened, ‘Shouldn’t we talk about this?’

‘Why? It’s fine, you never sleep anyway.’

‘Well, yes, but-?’ he cut himself off and searched John’s face for an answer.

John had a brief moment of worry. What would happen to this Sherlock when he went to sleep? Would John wake up alone again? This Sherlock had stayed longer than any other in a long while. Why was that?

Sherlock continued to scan John as he stood. He picked up his own mug and grimaced as he picked up Sherlock’s, now old, still full one.

‘Didn’t drink it, hardly surprising.’ He muttered to himself.

John didn’t hear Sherlock ghostly footprints on the floor. But he could feel him just behind him all the same.

‘I er... missed you.’ It was deep and sad and longing. It made John’s heart squeeze.

‘Yea, I miss you too. Everyday.’

‘Well now I’m back...’

‘For now.’

John sucked in a deep breath. How long could he trick himself into keeping Sherlock there? When would his mind realise this wasn’t real. As if thinking it had caused it John felt the presence behind him dissipate. He crumpled in towards the sink. Turning, he looked around the flat, just in case.

Well, suppose he had to get ready. Therapy session today. Ella would love him today. He went into the bathroom, brushing his hair to fill the time between now and when he had to leave.

He didn’t hear the front door open and close. He didn’t see Sherlock re-enter and place his phone back in his pocket. He did notice him when he came back into the main room.

John ignored him. He couldn’t keep doing this, he had to move on. At the same time there was part of John that screamed that seeing Sherlock, even like this, was worth the pain of him leaving again.

John grimed at Sherlock stood in the doorway watching him. He half chuckled to himself darkly.

‘They are definitely sending me away when they hear this.’

Sherlock looked confused again. Another reason John was sure he wasn’t real. Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was never confused.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Going slowly insane?’ John smiled and looked down at his clothes before turning to Sherlock again. ‘What do you think, Sherlock? Can’t you deduce?’

His Sherlock always deduced things about John. Anything John knew his Sherlock knew, shared mind and all. It’s never quite as cleverly explained but John’s mind does a good job making it seem believable.

‘John, you’re sounding a bit hysterical.’

‘Me? I’m sounding hysterical? Thanks for the brilliant insight.’

‘Maybe you should sit down?’

Sherlock gestured at a chair and John sat in it with a slight hum. John buried his face in his hands for a moment but quickly looked back up, best not to let Sherlock out of his sight.

‘I know it’s... strange... my being back, but-’

‘But you’re not back.’ John said sadly. ‘Not really. And I don’t care, I promise, but... it’s hard sometimes.’

‘What- what do you mean?’

‘I mean. It’s hard being without you. I used to think I could do with a rest, without cases at four am and heads in the fridge. Now though? I just miss it. I want it back. I want you back. I mean look at me, talking to the air.’

‘John you’re not-’ Sherlock started.

‘Yes.’ John said shortly, cutting though him.

It wasn’t the first time his visions had tried to convince him they were real. Once he had almost believed it, but after he realised that was in his head... He couldn’t do it again. He stood from his chair, placed his feet firmly on the floor and glared at Sherlock.

‘Yes I am! You’re not here, you can’t be here. You’re a game my mind tricks me with. You can’t be here. I lost you, and that’s my fault. So if I go mad hearing your voice I’m ok with that.’

Ella had told him so many times that Sherlock’s jump was not his fault. But the detective had dived off that building, alone, after John had called him a machine. How could john not blame himself? He had betrayed his best friend and it cost his life.

‘What? Wait. No. No, you’ve got it all wrong.’

‘No. I don’t. Sherlock the only thing I ever got wrong was not telling you how I felt before you jumped.’

Sherlock seemed poised to argue but he hesitated. His eyes twitched in his socket like he was analysing that last sentence.

‘How... how do you ‘feel’ about me?’

Ahh, there it was. The reason phantom Sherlock was here. Ella told him there was always a reason.

‘Really? You’re gonna make me say it out loud?’ John took a deep breath, steeling himself. ‘I love you. Maybe if you’d known, maybe things would be different.’

Sherlock’s breath seemed to catch and he reached a hand out towards John.

‘John, I- I-.’

John took a quick step back. He didn’t want to break the illusion, this Sherlock couldn’t touch him and if those fingers skated through his skin it would destroy everything.

‘There. That’s it, the whole of it. Maybe I could have saved you. But I didn’t.’

Sherlock looked taken aback, if slightly cross. ‘None of this was your fault. None of it.’

‘No?’ John looked straight at Sherlock, ‘You jumped off a building. You killed yourself. How is that not my fault?’

‘There’s nothing you could have done. I jumped to save you. I jumped because seeing you dead would have killed me anyway.’

‘And you think it hasn’t killed me? Every day?’ John gestured to the bedsit he lived in, blank, dreary, small. ‘Does this look like living?’

‘John, I’m sorry, but I’m ba-’

‘NO. Stop it. Stop this.’

‘Can’t you see... I’m ali-’

‘No.’

‘Please listen to me.’

Sherlock took a step forwards and John backed up again, his knees hitting the seat of the chair he’d been using. He backed around it quickly, using the chair as a barrier between their bodies. Well, his body and this ghost. He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so desperately to keep this Sherlock here but he couldn’t allow it if he kept insisting he was real.

‘John, please.’

John winced at the sound and started to hum, as if his soft voice could cover the sound of Sherlock’s begging.

‘What can I do to prove to you that I’m here?’

John considered. Was it worth taking the chance? What could he do to prove that Sherlock wasn’t really there? He needed someone else, to tell him, to remind him, to see. He pulled out his phone and dialled a number, holding a finger towards Sherlock, signifying he should be quiet.

Sherlock tried to speak once more but John shushed him as his call was answered.

‘Yea, Greg... I know, been a while, too long... yea been alright, I think...’ he glanced at Sherlock who was pouting at being shushed. ‘How’s things... oh that’s good... actually there was a reason I called, I need a favour... could you stop by a moment... excellent, I’ll see you soon.’

Sherlock had sat down on a chair as he listened to John speaking. He rolled his eyes at the small talk and crossed his arms at the mention of Greg coming by.

‘Stay, sit, be quiet.’ John said before putting his phone away.

‘You told that you love me.’ Sherlock said quietly, ‘Then you announce you think I’m a hallucination.’ His voiced rose slightly, ‘Now you want me to be quiet?’ He finished, just under a shout.

‘Yes, well, people that are likely not real get to stay quiet.’

‘But I am real.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes to emphasise that he thought John was being an idiot.

‘Greg will be here soon...’ John muttered walking to the kitchen to make more tea, busying himself as he waited.

‘Yes, where he will point out that I’m actually here.’

‘Or he’ll let me know you’re not here and he’ll probably have me sectioned.’

The silence stretched all of two minutes. Sherlock fidgeted in his seat and John sipped his new drink. Sherlock, of course, was the one who broke it.

‘Well, “hypothetically” then, what will you do if I’m real?’

John breathed deeply through his nose. Should he tempt himself with ‘what if’s? Why not.

‘Well, first off, I’ll be embarrassed. I did just declare myself to you... rather put all the cards on the table. I suppose we’d move back into Baker Street, if that’s still what you want... once again I did just declare myself.’

‘Don’t be embarrassed’ Sherlock replied, leaning forwards on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin, ‘As soon as Gavin tells you I’m real and I’m here, that I’ve come back, for you, I’m going to slam the door in his face and kiss you like I’ve been waiting all year to do.’

John froze, face the very picture of shock.

‘What? Now I know you’re not real... you- you what?’

Sherlock stood, moved to the centre of the room. ‘I’m real, I’m here. Touch me and you’ll see.’ He extended one hand out towards John, beckoning him.

John was around the chair and gripping Sherlock’s wrist before he realised what he was doing. So much for keeping his distance. Then it hit him. He was holding Sherlock’s wrist. His solid wrist. This hadn’t happened before. He was madder than he thought. His fingers automatically found the last place they had touched on Sherlock, when he had died, the pulse point in his wrist.

‘I can touch you.’

Sherlock, as if sensing that John was holding him and feeling the beating of his heart moved John’s hand to his chest, right above where his heart lay. It was there, the beat. The feel of muscle pumping life through his veins. John could feel it. He could feel his own heart beat race in his fingertips, he was beginning to shake, breathing perhaps too shallowly. He didn’t move his hand, held it in place, feeling that beat, Sherlock’s hand covering his own.

‘John you can feel me, feel my heart beating, you know I-’

‘John. What’s going on?’

John’s eyes slipped away from Sherlock, over to the doorway, back to where his hand lay. He dropped his fingers. Greg was looking at him funny, and John supposed it would be a little weird walking in on your friend standing in the middle of the room with an arm outstretched towards nothing.

‘Greg. Thanks for coming.’

‘John?’ Greg was staring at John oddly, wondering what to say.

‘I ahh... Just needed a hand with something.’

John glanced once more at Sherlock then back to Lestrade, whose eyes were riveted to John, as though he were the only person in the room.

‘What can I help you with?’

‘I, uhh, I might sound crazy but, well-’

‘Go on. Ask him.’ Sherlock prompted, his usual arrogance in his voice. John shook his head slightly towards Sherlock.

‘I need...’ John’s eyes wandered over the flat, trying to find something to explain why he asked Greg to come. His eyes settled on Sherlock again. ‘You were there, when I used to see him in the street...’

That was why he’d asked Greg, truth be told. Greg had seen him, countless times, the look of desperate hope, straining to see someone he was sure was Sherlock.

‘When you thought you’d seen... Sherlock? Yea I remember. I could never forget your face, you looked, I dunno, heartbroken I suppose, when it wasn’t him.’

John could feel that same look starting to grace his face now. Greg hadn’t looked at Sherlock, hadn’t mentioned Sherlock, hadn’t seemed to notice him at all. He had to tell him he was seeing Sherlock again, in a more permanent way.

‘Yea, well, hasn’t been the best year. Greg, I don’t think I’m doing so well.’

‘For god’s sake Graham, tell him I’m here.’ Sherlock said, rounding on Greg.

‘His name’s Greg.’ John said, at the exact time Greg also said ‘My name’s Greg.’

John looked at Greg in shock once more. ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘What do you mean “who am I talking to”?’ Greg replied looking confused at John’s question.

John glanced between Greg and Sherlock quickly. ‘You see him too?’ His voice cracked on the last word but he didn’t care.

‘Course I bloody see him. What to do you- oh.’

‘You can see him.’ John said, holding his breath without notice and trying to keep his feet beneath him as the world swayed.

‘I told you so.’ Sherlock said, singsong.

John wasn’t getting any of the humour, any of the fun. He thought Greg would come, tell him it was all in his head, and things would go back to normal. No, Greg could see Sherlock, hear Sherlock. Sherlock was real. John took in a breath that was more sob than anything near regular.

‘You see him. He’s real?’

‘Geoff, if you could kindly get out I-’

‘Greg.’ John said, with a pointed look at Sherlock. ‘Thank you, Greg, for coming, bu I reckon we probably need a moment.’

‘But I don’t understand.’ Said greg, crossing his arms over his chest.

‘Neither do I, but I’m going to, if you could give us a bit.’ John moved forwards and started ushering Greg out of the flat, feeling slightly bad about dragging him here for all of five seconds.

‘Okay,’ Greg said in parting, ‘Call me tomorrow. It’s, uh, good to see you Sherlock.’

Sherlock muttered something that could have been _Obvious_ or _Dull_.

John started at Sherlock. All the shock was starting to wear off, the relief at seeing his best friend, the man he loved, alive and well was leaving as well. Anger swept in to fill its place. John glared at Sherlock.

‘John. I-’

‘You.’ John said, almost lovingly, ‘You.’ The second time it came out a little harsher. ‘You!’

Sherlock jumped back as John kicked out at whatever happened to be closest, an unfortunate end table. Stupid table!

‘A year, Sherlock! It’s been a year! You died. I watched you die!’

‘Well, technically, I didn’t really die...’ Sherlock tried, his lips quirking even as he held his hands up in defence.

‘You didn’t die.’ John repeated, smiling angrily, ‘I did.’

Sherlock looked truly sorry. His face full of regret and his eyes pleading, ‘I’m sorry john. I thought that...’

John didn’t wait to hear what Sherlock thought. ‘You killed me, everyday. I saw you everywhere. I had to stop going out. I couldn’t see people. The clinic gave me time off but it was really just a polite sacking!’

‘It wasn’t just you John.’ Sherlock’s voice rose competed with John’s, ‘I ached for you! I was going mad, thinking about you here, moving on, forgetting, dating pitiful women. You have no idea how many times I wanted to come, get you, take you with me.’

‘Dating women?’ shouting back, ‘I hadn’t dated a woman for at least two months _before_ you jumped. I would have followed you anywhere, you idiot!’

Sherlock stood, slack jawed staring at John, both of them breathing heavily and glaring at each other. For a beat the only sound was heaving chests. Then Sherlock stopped forwards, grabbing John’s face and pressing their lips together firmly.

John struggled for all of a moment, still fighting to keep his anger. It couldn’t compare to how much he had wanted this, for so long, and it dissolved away. Sherlock pulled away, resting his forehead against John’s, looking into his eyes.

‘Say it again, John.’

John thought for half a second before he realised what Sherlock needed to hear. He needed to say it again, to Sherlock, now he knew he was real.

‘I love you.’

Sherlock grinned and pulled their lips together again. John pulled away this time, looking expectantly at Sherlock. He needed to hear something too. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly before grasping John’s face in his hands and stroking his thumbs over his cheeks, staring deep into his eyes.

‘John, I died every day waiting for you, of course, yes, of course I love you.’

It was John’s turn to grin. He leaned in towards Sherlock, putting everything he had into their kiss, every last emotion raging through his blood. Sherlock pushed John until he was against a wall, not hard to do in the tiny flat, not breaking the kiss for an instant.

‘So I guess you could sleep in my bed after all.’ John joked.

Does that mean we can leave this and go back to Baker Street?’ He looked around in exaggerated disgust.

John pretended to be offended, ‘You don’t like this place?’ he laughed, ‘Yea, let’s go home.’

Sherlock smiled at the word, ‘Home.’ He repeated before continuing there kiss in a way that suggested he didn’t plan on relocating for quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd so let me know if I messed up.  
> Sorry I've kinda abandoned Mycroft's Rewards, I've been teaching 5 year olds for the last few weeks (as prof exp for my teaching degree), very exciting but very exhausting/time consuming. I'll get back to it asap.  
> This is kinda in hopes you'll forgive me :L


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